A sharp winter wind swept across the empty lot on the outskirts of northeast Edmond, stirring up dry blades of frozen grass and the soft scent of red earth. The field had once been little more than a quiet patch of scrubland—bare, overlooked, the kind of place you’d drive past without thinking twice.

Not anymore.

Now it was ringed with temporary fences and scaffolding poles, flanked by parked news vans and construction trailers. A small crowd had gathered behind safety barriers—fans from all over, bundled in heavy jackets and Feral Eclipse merch, some holding handmade signs, others waving flags that fluttered like battle standards in the breeze. Every one of them had their phones out. This wasn’t just a photo op.

This was history.

The pack arrived just after noon in full force, riding the freshly washed tour bus with Diesel behind the wheel, and trailing an entourage of local vendors, city officials, and hired camera crews. Despite the cold, spirits were high.

Gabriel hopped out first, wearing a custom gold-plated hardhat with little holes cut out for his ears.

“This is it,” he declared dramatically, spinning in place. “This is where the legend begins.”

Thane stepped down behind him, far more measured, carrying a tablet loaded with budget sheets, timelines, and permit documentation. Mark followed with his collar turned up against the wind, clutching a folded lighting schematic like it was an heirloom.

The mayor met them at the edge of the site, all smiles, cheeks pink from the cold.

“You ready to dig?” he asked.

“Been ready,” Thane replied. “We’re just getting started.”

A temporary stage had been assembled at one end of the lot—a simple riser with a podium, a few folding chairs, and a rented speaker system already struggling with the Oklahoma wind. The press milled about nearby, gathering sound bites and livestreaming the moment to what was already an exploding global audience.

As the mayor gave his brief, supportive speech and introduced the city council representative, the pack waited off to the side, shivering and excited.

Rico paced. Maya adjusted her scarf. Jonah tried to balance a thermos on top of a ceremonial shovel and nearly took out a reporter. Emily was crouched behind a plastic crate, distributing enamel pins to a group of local fans allowed past the barrier. They read: First Fang Crew.

Finally, Thane stepped forward to the mic.

“This lot,” he said, his breath fogging in the cold, “used to be empty. Like a lot of things were for us once.”

He looked out at the fans—at the bundled families, the teens with glittery face paint, the adults clutching hot drinks and blinking away happy tears.

“But Edmond believed in us. And now, we want to return that favor. This venue isn’t just for us. It’s for everyone. It’s where dreams are going to be made.”

He paused, then added with a smirk, “And yes, the loading dock is on the correct side.”

The crowd laughed. Even Mark cracked a grin.

With the speeches done, the crew gathered around a long, shallow trench marked for the first symbolic dig. Nine shovels waited in a perfect row—engraved, polished, ceremonial. One bore Mark’s name. Another had Gabriel’s hardhat logo etched into the handle.

They lined up shoulder to shoulder—Thane, Gabriel, Mark, Rico, Maya, Cassie, Jonah, Emily, and Diesel. The cold was momentarily forgotten.

“On three,” Thane said.

Gabriel whispered, “I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

“One… two—”

“THREE!” Gabriel shouted, and leapt forward, his clawed feet kicking up red dirt as he jammed his shovel into the earth like it owed him money.

The others followed with far more composure—though Mark’s scoop of dirt was so precise it could’ve been laser-cut. The sound of clinking shovels and scattered cheers rose into the air.

Behind them, the crowd exploded.

Fans screamed. Flags waved. Someone let off a confetti cannon that absolutely hadn’t been approved. A group of middle schoolers started chanting “FERAL DEN! FERAL DEN!” until their teacher gave up and joined in.

A drone buzzed overhead, catching aerial footage of Gabriel flinging dirt into the air like a victorious puppy.

“This land is CLAIMED!” he howled. “Claimed by music, mayhem, and merch sales!”

Thane sighed with a smile. “He’s had six shots of espresso.”

“Seven,” Emily whispered.

Back on the bus that night, everything felt… different.

Warm.

The pack lounged across the couches and bunks, muddy boots and spent energy giving way to soft conversation and sleepy pride. Gabriel was snoring in his hoodie, his gold-plated hardhat still perched on his stomach like a crown. Jonah scrolled social media and laughed at fan reactions. Emily was uploading drone footage and tagging every local sponsor.

Mark stared out the window for a long time, then murmured, “It’s happening.”

Thane didn’t look up from his tablet. “Yeah. It is.”

From the back, Rico’s voice drifted out: “Can we put a slide from the green room to the crowd?”

“No,” Thane replied automatically.

“Yes,” Mark said at the same time.

Diesel muttered, “I’ll install it.”

Gabriel stirred just enough to mumble, “Only if it lands in a ball pit.”

Everyone groaned.

But no one disagreed.

Because deep down—they all knew:

The Den had officially been claimed.